WFTB Score: 1/20
The plot: Brilliant surgeon Nick Cavanaugh has it all: he is wealthy, has a loving girlfriend and inherits his mother’s spacious house when she dies. But he is haunted by memories of maternal abuse, and by Helena, a one-time lover over whom he obsesses constantly. When Helena suffers a car accident outside his house, only Nick has the skills to save her.
As Boxing Helena doesn’t get much of a run out (on British TV, anyway), the film may be best known as the one that Kim Basinger famously pulled out of, at the cost of a lawsuit and several million dollars. Well, believe me, Kim; it was worth every cent, because this story of obsession and enslavement is well worth escaping, at any price.
Julian Sands is Dr Nick Cavanuagh, the surgeon whose private life is not nearly as successful as his work one. Scarred by memories of a neglectful, abusive, adulterous mother, Nick neglects his own prissy girlfriend to watch the window of the sultry Helena (Sherilyn Fenn), a one-night stand he can’t get out of his head. Tormented by visions of her sexuality, he resolves to throw a party and win her over. Much to his displeasure, she leaves with another man, and when he lures her back to his house a dreadful car accident ensues which deprives her of her lower limbs. But Nick has not taken her to the hospital; no, he carries out the procedure at home, considering he is the only person who can properly take care of her.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Sensationalist and distasteful though the plot may be, by the time any dismemberment happens you are no longer likely to be paying any attention. You are more likely to be wincing at the shockingly bad dialogue, delivered by dreadful characters, portrayed by charmless actors. Sands is the chief culprit, his supposedly brilliant doctor a lank-haired, whiny wet blanket, an emotionally underdeveloped child in a man’s body – I cannot think of a less engaging lead role in a film.
Fenn’s Helena is no better, a stereotypical bitch-queen who bores of lovers because the phone rings, causing current squeeze Ray (Bill Paxton) to deliver zingers such as “this scene’s getting old.” At least Ray has plenty of hair, which is more than you can say for Nick’s friend Lawrence (Art Garfunkel). Garfunkel’s tonsure is a thing of wonder, which distracts wonderfully from the fact that he isn’t much of an actor, not that his character has much to say in any event.
The more controversial part of the plot follows, wherein Helena tries to throttle Nick for the abuse of his power, an act which costs her her arms. Confined to a cabinet (the effect is a cheap magician’s trick), Helena continues to taunt Nick about his lack of sexual prowess, and he continues to say that she’s being beastly to him (or words to that effect); however, she ultimately softens and, in a fantasy sequence where Helena regains her limbs, reveals to Nick the secrets of satisfying a woman. He uses these to the full on an escort, much to the admiration and excitement of the watching Helena, who is shocked into silence by the performance.
Less generous souls might complain that the scene is entirely gratuitous and not a little offensive, as this act seals a bond between Helena and Nick; fear not, though, for Nick’s acts do not go unpunished when Ray at last tracks the couple down and discovers the full horror of what Nick has done. He takes his vengeance on the hapless doctor. Or does he?
In the hands of a more imaginative director – let’s say, completely at random, David Lynch – Boxing Helena could have been a truly disturbing film, reaching into the dark mind of the doctor, showing with brutal honesty the bloody violence of removing Helena’s limbs. But David’s daughter Jennifer has fashioned a terribly dull film, with flat, bland characterisations, no pace or tension and some silly imagery about caged birds and incomplete statues. And no blood whatsoever. I wouldn’t expect the film to suddenly turn into a horror flick, and perhaps there were budget issues, but the removal of Helena’s arms and legs is so ridiculously neat that it’s just one more thing you can’t take seriously.
Boxing Helena may say something about the relationship between mothers and sons. It may say something about the objectification of women and their ownership by men. But if it does, it doesn’t say anything interesting. No points here for acting, script, characterisation, direction, intention or execution; minus one for the stupid ‘Bobby Ewing’ ending; one point for the half-decent soundtrack; and one for all the hair. You may object to the tastelessness of this film, its themes of captivity and implied anaesthetised torture. The real torture is the viewer’s, if they choose to sit through the whole of Boxing Helena in its dreadful, boring, entirety.
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